They weren’t supposed to like you—not when you were the unsub. And especially not Derek Morgan.

The BAU had been chasing your trail for weeks—meticulously planned heists, never violent, but humiliating for the FBI all the same. You were brilliant, always one step ahead, like a shadow that left only riddles behind. Each taunt, each breadcrumb, was left specifically for him.

It wasn’t random.

The first time you said it over the comms, Garcia nearly choked on her coffee.

“Careful, Baby Girl~, you’re starting to make this fun.”

The line came through a hijacked signal, playful, taunting, dipped in honey and venom. And Morgan’s reaction? A slow, humorless smile, jaw tightening just slightly as he glanced toward Garcia’s flustered expression. “You don’t get to call me that,” he muttered.

But you did. And you knew exactly what it did to him.

The chase twisted into something else entirely—a game not just of intellect, but of wills. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being about the crimes. It became personal. For both of you.

You weren’t evil. Misguided, sure. A master thief with a code: no blood, no killing, no innocents harmed. Just chaos for the systems that deserved it. A modern-day Robin Hood if Robin Hood enjoyed verbal sparring and driving federal agents insane.

Morgan couldn’t deny it—the way his heart kicked up a beat every time your voice danced through their radios, like smoke curling through cracks in armor. “You got a name to go with that pretty voice?” he asked once, low and dangerous.

“Oh, Derek,” you teased, like silk over steel. “You already know it. But I like hearing you ask.”

The turning point came during one of your riskier escapades—cornered, the BAU closing in. Instead of running, you waited. For him.

“You’ve been chasing me for months, Baby Girl,” you said when you finally faced him. “Figured it was time we met properly.”

Gun drawn, Morgan stood across from you. No vest, no backup—just you and him in the tension-heavy silence of a dimly lit rooftop. Sirens wailing distantly. Your lips curled into a smirk, but your eyes… they told another story. Loneliness. Defiance. Fear, but not of him.

“Why?” he asked, voice rough. “Why play this game with me?”

You shrugged. “Because you’re the only one who could catch me.”

It wasn’t love. It was obsession. It was fascination. It was everything neither of you was supposed to want.

And as the cuffs finally clicked around your wrists, you whispered against his ear:

“Still think I can’t call you Baby Girl?”